


The (Delayed) Ascension of Sarah Blake

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Gen, literally just crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Death hosts a slumber party in honour of the most recent girl to die due to her involvement with the Winchester brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The (Delayed) Ascension of Sarah Blake

**Author's Note:**

> I had way too much fun writing this. Blame my friend Sarah for encouraging me to do so.

“So, I’m dead?”

The dark-haired girl smiles sadly. Sarah harrumphs.

“Well, I suppose I should have seen _that_ coming.” Honestly, she’d known from the moment she’d opened the door and seen the ghost of that mysterious college kid from so long ago that her days were up. She’d always prided herself on her instinct, it was what made her so good at her job.

Still, this was one case where it majorly sucked to be right.

The strangled corpse and Sam’s collapsed, weeping form vanish, leaving the two standing instead in an expanse of white fog. Sarah supposes she should be alarmed by this development, but instead she just feels _tired_.

The stranger finally speaks. “My name is Tessa.”

“And you are?”

“A reaper.”

“… Right.” Sarah puts her hands on her hips, squaring her shoulders and fixing her expression with a no-nonsense air, the type that works so well in negotiating down prices with sellers. Might as well get this over with. “So, what happens next? Passing through the vale? Going towards the light?”

Tessa grins. “Actually, we have a detour to make first. A little stop. There are some people who want to meet you.”

Next thing she knows, Sarah’s being handed a draught of premium lager by Death himself.

Which… alright. That’s nothing her keen instincts could have predicted.

xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx

Couches are laid out in a sort of dilapidated square around a wooden coffee table. Scattered glasses and bottles of alcohol are placed haphazardly upon its surface. In one corner of the arrangement sits an elegant armchair, carved with delicate patterns and more austere symbols, upon which is perched a man in a black suit.

Sarah’s hands shake around the glass she holds with the terrible, innate knowledge of the identity of the figure who handed it to her.  His dark eyes follow her from the chair and she raises the glass to her lips, chugging it down because really, you don’t reject a gift from the Grim Reaper himself.

Especially not good alcohol because _damn_ , this is refreshing stuff. And her favourite brand too, the kind her husband has only ever bought on very special (babymaking) occasions.

Her brain buzzes, overwhelmed with information or high-quality alcohol, or both.

“Is- is this… heaven?” she asks, quivering despite herself.

“No,” he answers, his voice not the dry rasp of metal she’d been expecting, but something smoother, like a fine malt. “Call this… a sort of _greenroom_ , if you will. A little pocket of the universe I squirreled away, a _long_ time ago, for private functions like this.”

She doesn’t have time to ask what type of function this is before something fluffy smacks her hard in the mouth. By some miracle she doesn’t drop her glass and looks down to find a stuffed duck lying at her feet. _Um_.

A high giggle sounds from one of the couches and she finds herself at last able to draw her eyes away from the dark figure to examine the other occupants of the room.

The assailant is a blonde with wavy hair and full lips and a white dress pulled up below folded knees and bare feet. Another blonde sits beside her, clutching her own pillow and smiling. Thinner than the other girl, and taller, she seems like a soldier off duty, legs spread wide and posture easy. They both snicker again.

“What-“

“Is this?” The taller girl grins at her and reaches back over the couch to grab her wrist. “It’s a party. Come on!”

Sarah stares in amazement at her own arm as she finds that it’s covered in flannel instead of the blue sweater she’d been sporting only moments before. In fact, she’s in her favourite checked pyjamas with a pair of soft blue slippers on her feet.

“It’s become something of a tradition,” Death remarks without looking up.

“Yep,” says a huskier voice from the opposite couch. The woman there lies on her back, legs splayed across the entire couch and one hand on her exposed midriff. She wears a Ramones tshirt and a devilish smile. “And so the tally of women the Winchesters have gotten deader than doornails rises by one.”

“Hey!” says the girl with the wavy hair, tossing another pillow at the brunette. “You don’t know they got her killed. She could have just been around.”

“Yes, well, regardless,” says Death ( _Death, who is living and breathing and sipping Chardonnay out of a fucking solo cup, what the hell is Sarah’s life_ ). “These girls like to throw a little celebration every time we pick up a new victim along the trail of bloody pawprints that those two mutts track all over the carpet of the world.” He says this with a measure of fondness that even his nonchalant tone cannot disguise.

“Jo here got it started,” says the wavy haired girl, elbowing her neighbour. “I’m Jess, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Sarah,” she answers, making her way around to awkwardly sit on the edge of the couch beside Jo. Jess scoots over to give her room. She raises an eyebrow at Death.

“Oh, him? He’s just the chaperone.”

“I cannot very well allow souls out of heaven without supervision. That would be irresponsible,” says Death stiffly. He materializes a newpaper from thin air, turns to the Diversions section and begins doing the Sudoku.

Jo whispers in Sarah’s ear, “He secretly loves it, don’t let him fool you.”

“Yeah,” says the brunette much less discreetly, “loves listening in to our lady chats. Can’t resist the gossip.” Death scratches in a ‘9’ much more vigorously than needed, but ignores her.

The woman turns her attention to Sarah. “I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Pamela, and _you_ -“ She sits up and, leaning across the table, trails her finger down Sarah’s collarbone with a look that suggests she’s a lion whose been hungry for far too long, “are the fresh meat.”

Sarah leans back against the cushions, furtively glancing for an escape. She has no intention of being devoured by the souls of the damned, not today. Pamela notices her frightened expression and laughs with gusto, which does little to set Sarah’s heart at ease. “Don’t worry, hun, I’m only joking. Welcome to the fold, where all are equals in death and decay and drink the finest whiskey in town.” She pauses to take a swig from her glass of amber liquid. “All in all, not a bad gig.”

Sarah takes a deep breath. “But what about my family? What happens to them?” After all, she’s got some bigger worries on her mind, nothing even these bizarre circumstances can distract her from.

“I wouldn’t worry too hard. Worst case scenario? You’ll see them sooner than you think. Best case? They live long, healthy hearty lives-“

“Provided they keep away from the Winchesters,” Jo adds.

“Naturally.” Pam tips her glass to her compatriot. “Provided that, you’ll still get to see them soon. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being dead it’s that life’s a hell of a lot shorter than you think, regardless of when you go. So maybe I could have lived thirty more years before kicking the bucket from lung cancer or getting smashed up by a drunk driver. So what? It’s not like I’m done living yet, just doing it from a different plane is all.”

“You’re remarkably well adjusted,” Sarah says. She can feel the tension draining out of her body as the material world, the world of her family, begins to feel more and more remote.

“Well, comes with the territory, I guess. You’ll see.”

The conversation ends abruptly with a shout from the doorway Sarah swears didn’t exist five minutes ago. There’s a woman standing in it with feline eyes and chestnut hair and a pair of killer black heels which she promptly shucks into a corner. “Pizza’s here, ladies!”

Everything quickly devolves from there.

xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx

“Never have I ever… done a body shot.”

Sarah, Pam and Bela all throw back their drinks. “Oh, come on, seriously guys?” Jo moans. “I’m the only one not getting drunk here.”

“Well, maybe you should have lived a little while you had the chance!” Pamela crows. The pleasant buzz has chased away the last of Sarah’s worries and she happily lolls her head from side to side, resting it a little on Jo’s shoulder whenever it gets too heavy.

“Ok,” says Jess with a huge lopsided smile, “maybe we should get to the most important one before Sarah here falls asleep on us.”

“M’not tired,” slurs Sarah. Everything feels a little hazy but that’s fine. Wonderful, even. She grabs another slice of pepperoni and bites in, feeling the grease coat the inside of her mouth. Even after an hour it’s still piping hot and gooey. Perks of suspended time, she imagines.

“I guess I have to say it,” says Pamela, by far the least intoxicated of the four. She snaps her fingers and a chalkboard appears behind the couch, seemingly hanging on thin air. On one side she writes ‘Sam’, and the other ‘Dean’. After a moment’s pause, she also scrawls ‘John’.

“Ewww, no!” cries Jo and Jess bursts out laughing, her body doubling over. Sarah’s not sure what the joke is but she laughs along anyways. Her head drifts to the other side. Death is glancing up over the newspaper, his eyes animated with amusement. Pamela erases the third name. On the left side she writes ‘reality’, and then below it ‘fantasy’.

“Alright. Never have I ever made out with Sam Winchester.”

Jess enthusiastically takes her shot. After a little hesitation, Sarah takes hers as well. Bela and Pamela cheer from the opposite couch. “Go Sammy, finally getting some game!”

“Speaking of which, it’s too bad Madison couldn’t make it.” Sarah looks at Jo, confused. “Oh, just cause of all this bullshit with Purgatory. Usually the big D here would have gone and snatched her out for a bit so she could party with the rest of us, but I guess everything’s had to be locked down pretty tight.” She whispers conspiratorially, “Been lots of breakouts lately.”

“Let me guess. The Winchesters?” Sarah asks dryly, nudging her with her shoulder.

Jo smirks. “You know it.”

Pamela adds two ticks to Sam’s side of the board. “Moving along! Never have I ever made out with Dean Winchester.”

Only Jo drinks, though in Sarah’s eyes Bela looks a little shifty. Pamela marks down the one on her tally. “Looks like Sam takes home the prize this time around!”

“That’s my boy!” Jess cries, and drains the rest of her drink.

“Hey, we’re not finished yet, save some room,” scolds Bela and refills Jess’s glass.

“This is where I’m going to have to pass the torch along, girls,” Pamela says with a wink.

“Alright,” says Bela. “Never have I ever _wanted_ to make out with Sam Winchester.” This time around Pamela joins Jess and Sarah in their drinking, along with a muttered _I wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that_. Bela adds three ticks beside Sam’s ‘fantasy’. “Ok, I have to pass the torch along too, I suppose.”

Jess takes it gladly. “Never have I ever,” she shudders, “wanted to make out with Dean Winchester.” Bela, Jo and Pamela all drink. Sarah swears she sees out of the corner of her eye the lip of a red solo cup creeping up above the edge of the newspaper, but it might just be the whiskey talking.

“And that’s three for three!” announces Bela. “So one win for Sam and a tie for the second round. Thanks for playing, see you all next year.” A loud bang interrupts her.

“Not to worry, I have arrived!” cries a voice from the doorway. A distinctly male voice, which makes Sarah turn her head in confusion. There’s a collective groan, but Jo shushes them.

“No boys allowed!” says Jess, snickering.

“It will only be a moment, my fair ladies. Death and I here just need to have a word.”

“Wait, why Ash is here again?” Pamela asks Jo.

“Cause Death likes him. Guess he’s got some newfangled system rigged up for the more efficient collection of souls. Got something to do with chaos theory and its applications to soul identification and some Kileemahoo thing-“

“Kolmogorov complexity optimization!” Ash calls over his shoulder from his crouched spot beside Death’s armchair.

“Yeah, that. Well, anyways, I think Death takes these nights as an excuse to get some alone time with the guy, since he’s pulling all the rest of us out of heaven anyway.”

“We’re _this_ close to finding the algorithm,” Ash mutters with all the vehemence and delight of any supervillain about to unleash his evil plan upon an unsuspecting world.

“Keep at it, hun,” coos Pam before returning to her drink. “You’ll get there someday.”

xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx---xxx

A few glasses of water and a handful of rounds of Spin the Bottle later, the night seems to be drawing to a close.

(Death politely abstains from the game, but Ash is more than enthusiastic. Sarah decides that Pamela is by far the most experienced kisser, but she likes the taste of Jess’s mouth better, with something like honeysuckle shining through the bitterness of the beer. Tessa stops by halfway through the game, long enough for a few rounds, but leaves just as suddenly to retrieve another soul. Never off duty, it seems. Mysteriously, no matter how many times the bottle is spun, it never lands on Ash. Sarah has her grateful suspicions about who’s responsible for that.)

The table disappears and the couches transform into a giant mattress with all the plush blankets and fleecy shawls you could want. Death retires to a corner with a hefty book and a leftover box of pizza and the girls settle in for the night, bidding Ash a warm farewell.

The whispering doesn’t stop immediately, of course.

“Ooh, you’re a fiver! Never had one of those!”

“A what?”

“Since our numbers are growing so fast, we decided to organize ourselves based on what year we met the boys and sealed our doom.” Jo rolls onto her stomach “My mom’s an old-timer. 89.”

“Guess that’s why she thinks she’s too cool to hang out with the rest of us young’uns, right?” Pamela smirks from her place at the head of the mattress, laid out perpendicular to the rest of them.

“You’re not so young yourself! What, a nine? Technically I’m older than you!”

“What are you?” Sarah asks, trying to keep the conversation friendly.

“Oh, I’m a six.”

“No longer the second eldest of the group, missy! You’re moving down in the world.” Pamela teases. Jo bites her lip and playfully punches her.

“Shut up.”

Sarah smiles affectionately and yawns, snuggling down deeper into her nest of blankets. She can feel the heat of Jess’s body beside her, watches with lazily blinking eyes as Bela braids her hair before settling down at Jo’s side.

“Is this how it ends?” she ask, her voice bleary and vague as she fades into unconsciousness. Melancholy is beginning to set in as it occurs  to her drunken mind that this was all a distraction from the inevitable ending. “Is this… is this it?”

“This is just the beginning, Sarah. There’s more than you can ever know. A lot’s changed in the last few years.” Jo touches her hand. “And hey, don’t worry. We’ll be checking in on you from time to time.”

“These three will make sure you’re adjusting alright,” Bela adds. Her voice sounds bitter, laced with a deep pain that Sarah can’t begin to fathom. Pamela murmurs something in her ear, a reassurance perhaps. Sarah can’t make it out. She doesn’t understand, and she’s too tired to try.

“Just sleep,” says Jess softly. “It’ll all be alright, you’ll see.”

And down she falls, sleep and warmth overtaking her, and the comfort of new friendship in her last moments.

When the morning comes, it’s comes on in a dawn of splendid light and for the first time with new eyes, Sarah sees.


End file.
